


How Life Can Be

by sevenfists



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-05
Updated: 2007-08-05
Packaged: 2018-10-19 06:51:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10634544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfists/pseuds/sevenfists
Summary: Patrick wakes up to the sound of Pete singing the Kookaburra song in the shower.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to ficbyzee for beta work.

Patrick wakes up to the sound of Pete singing the Kookaburra song in the shower.

"Merry, merry king of the bush is he!" Pete hollers.

"Oh God," Patrick says. He rubs his face and cracks open one eye. Andy's sitting on the bunk across the aisle, eating fruit salad. "I'll give you five dollars if you kill him," Patrick says.

"He was singing Old McDonald earlier," Andy says. "You should be glad you missed it."

It's Thursday. They've got a show in five hours, and Patrick needs to get up, kick Pete off their bus, eat some breakfast, and find his lucky rocket ship boxers. First he finds his cell phone, buried in the blankets at the foot of his bunk, and texts Joe— _why is peter on my bus._

 _two words: bean burritos_ , Joe answers.

 _you're a real pal_ , Patrick types.

"We'll have to change the code again," Andy says.

"Joe let him eat burritos," Patrick says.

"Is that what I was smelling? I thought it was Dirty's laundry," Andy says, chewing thoughtfully on a strawberry.

"I need a new band," Patrick says. "Maybe Gabe will adopt me."

The bathroom door opens and Pete comes out, wearing boxer-briefs and toweling vigorously at his hair. "You'll never leave us, dude," he says. "Your heart's too full of the beautiful music we make together."

"Get off my bus," Patrick says. "This is like, highway robbery. You overtook us in the night."

Pete crawls into Patrick's bunk and presses a sloppy kiss to Patrick's temple. "I brought Pop Tarts," he says. "Will you forgive me? It's a love offering."

Patrick squirms away. It's too hot on the bus, Virginia sunshine baking down on the metal roof. His cell phone buzzes—Joe again, _i wanted to share petes farts with the world_.

"Who's that," Pete says, and grabs the phone out of Patrick's hand. He laughs when he reads the text. "Trohman keeps trying to deny our magical romance."

"Your magical burrito romance," Andy says.

Patrick gets up and stumbles toward the bathroom, hearing Pete's high-pitched cackle behind him, Andy's quieter laugh.

***

Patrick really likes being on tour. Like, there are things he hates about it, too—never feeling clean, and never getting to eat anything that doesn't come out of a box, and never having enough time to work on songs—but mostly it's pretty cool. He gets to hang out with his best friends and play music all the time, and that basically makes up for the bad parts.

Outside Toronto, they pull over at a truck stop for fuel and snacks. Patrick examines the store's potato chip collection, trying to decide between Fritos and Lay's.

Pete comes up behind him and digs his chin into Patrick's shoulder. "Can I ride on your bus this afternoon?" he asks, his jaw pressing into bone as he speaks.

"No," Patrick says. He tugs on the brim of his hat, grinning.

"I'll buy you a bag of Fritos," Pete says. "Two bags."

"You know you can't leave Joe alone for that long," Patrick says. "He'll cry himself to sleep."

"He's having a Mario Kart tournament with Dirty and Charlie, he'll be fine," Pete says. "Please? Come on, Peppermint Patty."

"Don't call me that," Patrick says. " _Two_ bags of Fritos."

He'd been planning to fix the bass line for the song he's working on—titled "I Hate Your Butt-Ugly Shoes And Wish You Would Die, You Cocksucking Prick" by Pete, but it's still up for debate—but he ends up watching some movie about gay soccer players with Pete, and then he takes a nap on Pete's shoulder while Pete and Andy discuss the optimal placement for Patrick's first tattoo.

He sleeps until Detroit, and then it's a whirlwind of getting dressed, warming up, and then they're on stage, underneath the blinding lights, and Patrick feels like he's been plugged in to the crowd's energy, an electric current running up and down his spine, vibrating, and he sings while he watches the crowd roll like the sea.

***

Andy's got the back room on their bus, with the real bed. They decided on doing it that way because Andy has kind of ridiculous amounts of sex, plus he goes to bed way earlier than Patrick does. So it makes sense for Patrick to sleep up front. He's used to his bunk, and he likes not having to stumble past Andy's sex antics on his way to bed.

In Boston, though, he manages to pull something in his neck during their show and can barely turn his head the next day, and sleeping in his bunk proves impossible. He can't get comfortable. When they stop for gas at 2am, he pulls a hoodie on over his t-shirt and stumbles to the other bus.

Joe's still awake, curled up on the couch and talking on the phone. Patrick flaps a hand at him as he shuffles past.

"Dude," Joe says, and then, "Sorry, Patrick just showed up on my bus. I dunno, babe, he didn't tell me."

Pete's door is closed, but Patrick can see light seeping out from the bottom. He knocks.

"Fuck off, Trohman, I told you to quit bugging me. Go find Dirty if you want to play Guitar Hero that bad."

"It's me," Patrick says.

The door opens. Pete beams at him, rumpled and bright-eyed. "Why didn't you say so?"

"I just did," Patrick says. "I can't sleep in my bunk." He comes in and shuts the door.

"You've come to the right place, Pattycakes," Pete says. His room's warm, dimly-lit. Hemmy's sleeping on the bed. Pete sits down and grabs his notebook and pen, waves them at Patrick. "I'm writing. You wanna sleep here?"

"Yeah," Patrick says. He crawls onto the bed, wedging himself between Hemmy and the wall. "Can I see?"

Pete leans away, clutching his notebook to his chest. "It's not ready yet! Quit forcing me to obey your capitalist ideals."

"That doesn't even make sense," Patrick says. "You've been listening to Andy too much."

"Oppression helps my writing," Pete says. "It's my soul of darkness. Art is pain."

"I guess you're an artist, then," Patrick says. He falls asleep listening to the quiet scratch of Pete's roller-ball pen against the paper.

***

Somewhere between Columbia and Wantaugh, Pete sends him a ridiculously long email full of lyrics, and Patrick spends the rest of the day sifting through it, trying to fit words to the music he's been writing. Pete's head still doesn't make any sense to him—half the time, Patrick can't even figure what he's talking about.

He texts Pete. _why is this song about cows?_

 _its a metaphor_ , Pete texts back.

 _for WHAT_ , Patrick replies.

 _do ur research_ , Pete says. _gertrude stien._

Pete can't spell, but Patrick looks it up anyway, and then is kind of horrified. _gertrude stein was messed up_ , he texts Pete.

 _yeah no kidding_ , Pete says. _not in touch with her sexuality. unlike me._

 _i don't think we can have a song about cows_ , Patrick texts. _sorry._

 _ill wear u down just wait_ , Pete texts.

The door to the bus opens, and Andy comes into the lounge. "Two hours until showtime," he says.

"Yeah, I know," Patrick says. "I'll be ready, I just—Pete's trying to get me to write this song about cows."

"The cow song? Don't let him do it," Andy says, opening one of the cabinets and digging through it.

"You knew about this? How come everyone knows about the cow song except me?"

"If by 'everyone' you mean 'me and Pete,' then it's because you aren't part of our exclusive club of two," Andy says. He finds a granola bar and cuts the top off the wrapper. Patrick has never seen Andy rip anything open; he always uses the little scissors on his Swiss Army Knife. It's kind of neurotic.

"Gertrude Stein," Patrick mutters darkly.

"Show in two hours," Andy says.

Patrick's phone buzzes: _ps ill give u cows any day of the week._ He hits delete and pretends he isn't blushing.

***

Before the show in Indianapolis, Patrick finds a note in his guitar case, folded up and tucked beneath the strings on the neck of the guitar.

_we were together in the warm room / love used to be harder than this / there's no copyright on this feeling / just artistic license_

There's nothing unusual about Pete stuffing lyrics in random places—under Patrick's pillow, inside one of his shoes—but it still makes Patrick's belly twist up. He keeps the note in his wallet, behind his driver's license.

***

They play three shows in Chicago, and everybody comes: parents, relatives, everyone they knew from the scene when they were just starting out. Every show is electric, and Patrick stumbles off the stage after the last one, so wired that his hands are shaking.

"FUCKING AWESOME," Pete hollers, tumbling into Patrick and wrapping a sweaty arm around Patrick's head. "You are a beautiful man."

"I moisturize," Patrick says.

Joe grabs him from the other side. "Let's hear some more of that gorgeous voice, baby!"

Patrick laughs, trying to shake them both off.

"Hands off, Trohman, he's all mine," Pete says, fending off Patrick's elbow.

"Don't I get a say in this?" Patrick asks.

"Nope," Pete says. He tugs Patrick closer, and his lips brush against Patrick's ear. "Seriously, you were amazing," he murmurs, low and close by, and for a moment Patrick can't hear anything but the rough heave of Pete's breathing.

***

Pete's doing one of those interviews where somebody follows him around with a camera and he gets to act charming and show off a whole lot. "This here's my best buddy Patrick," he says, sprawling onto the couch where Patrick's working at his laptop.

"Hi," Patrick says, and gives a little wave. He doesn't take off his headphones.

"We're in love," Pete says. "I don't think he realizes it yet. But one day I'm gonna win him over."

"This is why he lives on the other bus," Patrick tells the camera.

He watches the footage later, when it gets uploaded to the internet: Pete grinning; Patrick finally taking off his headphones and talking to the cameraman about the song he's working on; Pete's smile slipping, going softer, his eyes not on the camera at all.

***

In Tampa, Dirty buys a bunch of those inflatable innertubes that kids use, the ones shaped like animals, and decides they're going to have a pool party on the lawn outside the bus. Patrick sits in a folding chair with an elephant-shaped innertube around his neck. If anyone asks, he's working on his tan ("Dude, keep them pasty thighs away from me!" Joe yelled when Patrick came outside), but he's really watching Pete frolic around in swim trunks.

"C'mon, Patrice," Pete says, approaching with a Super Soaker. "Dirty's making water balloons."

"No thanks," Patrick says. He tilts up the brim of his hat and squints at Pete. "You know I melt when I get wet."

"Nah, that's Andy," Pete says. "His tattoos are just magic marker, they wash right off. That's why he doesn't ever shower."

"I'm glad you're here to explain these things to me," Patrick says.

"You'd probably starve to death without me," Pete says. "Or cry a lot. Come on, don't make me soak you with this thing."

Patrick hasn't had a water balloon fight since he was nine years old. He looks at Dirty gleefully tying off balloons and tossing them into a pail; and at Pete, gripping his Super Soaker and bouncing on his toes with excitement. "Okay," Patrick says.

Pete fights dirty. It doesn't come as a surprise. He knocks Patrick down onto the slippery grass and bites into a water balloon, exploding it in their faces. Patrick's glasses fall off. Pete's on top of him, laughing and water slick, and Patrick's hands glance off Pete's ribs when he gropes around for his glasses.

"Hey," Pete says, "hey, you don't need those."

"I can't see," Patrick says.

"You don't need to," Pete says. "Hey! Hey Dirty! Toss me another balloon!" he calls, and when Dirty does, he smashes it over his own head, water streaming down and dripping from his hair onto Patrick's face.

Patrick stares up at him, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

***

In Dallas, they play the new song, the one Patrick's been working on, patching together the lyrics that Pete sends him. Pete hovers at his shoulder the whole time, breathing on his neck. The crowd screams happily.

It's a great song, even if it is kind of weird to sing words that he knows were written about him.

***

"Okay, this is getting ridiculous," Andy says, coming into the lounge. "I'm staging an intervention."

Patrick looks up from his laptop, startled. "What?"

"You and Pete," Andy says. "I can't live in this atmosphere of sexual tension anymore, it's ruining my mojo."

"Your. This _what_?" Patrick says.

Andy sighs. He sits down beside Patrick and pats him on the shoulder. "You're in denial," he says. "There's nothing wrong with that. But the two of you are making me crazy."

"I don't—we're not _doing_ anything," Patrick says.

"Exactly," Andy says. "That's the problem. If you would just fuck and get it over with, then things could go back to normal."

"But. Then Pete and I would be _fucking_."

Andy rolls his eyes. "Which is not really all that different from the last eight years of your life."

Patrick opens his mouth and then closes it again. He can't think of anything to say.

"Look, I know you think he's going to break your heart and leave you in ruins," Andy says. "But that's not going to happen, and what if you're missing out on the best thing in your life? Carpe diem."

"I don't think that," Patrick says, which is kind of a lie.

"Okay," Andy says complacently. "You should listen to me, though. I'm going to make a sandwich, do you want one?"

"Um. Okay," Patrick says. Andy makes really good sandwiches.

That night, after the show, Patrick follows Pete back to his bus and back to his room, and locks the door behind them. Hemingway gambols happily at Patrick's feet, tongue lolling.

"Yo, what's going on," Pete says, halfway through stripping off his shirt.

Patrick tries not to stare. "Um. Andy says we should, uh."

"You got the lecture too?" Pete says. He surfaces again, hair spiky with sweat. He isn't smiling. Patrick isn't sure what to think about that.

"Yeah," Patrick says. "Did he—oh shit, this is ridiculous. I, uh. Pete—"

"Shut up," Pete says. He comes closer. Patrick can smell his sweat and his deodorant, and then he can _really_ smell it, because Pete slings an arm around Patrick's neck. "I'll never break your heart. Or make you cry."

"You're quoting the Backstreet Boys," Patrick says, "which doesn't really fill me with confidence."

"They taught me everything I know about romance," Pete says, smirking, and then he ducks his head and rubs his nose against Patrick's neck. "Dude, I'm serious, though, how the fuck is it possible for you to not realize how stupidly in love with you I am. I wrote a _song_ about you."

"Only one, though," Patrick says. His palms are sweating. He wipes them on Pete's jeans, and then leaves them there, his thumbs hooked inside the waistband.

"Only one that you know about, dipshit," Pete says.

"Um," Patrick says.

Pete pulls away and sighs. "Okay. Come here." He grabs Patrick's hand and leads him the three steps to the bed, and pulls him down onto the mattress. They lie there, pressed together from shoulder to knee. Patrick stares up at the ceiling. It's white. He can feel his pulse beating in his belly, a steady throb. He's waiting for Pete to say something else, but Pete doesn't.

Hemmy jumps up onto the bed and flops down on Patrick's stomach, startling a laugh out of him.

"There," Pete says, "that's the sound."

Patrick wheezes and shoves Hemmy off to the side. That dog is fucking heavy. "What, me laughing because your dog jumped on me?"

"You laughing," Pete says. "You happy. I want to make you happy. I'm not going to leave you destitute and in ruins or whatever it is you're freaking out about."

"That was just Andy," Patrick says.

"Don't lie to me, dude, I know you. You're always afraid of getting hurt." Pete pushes up onto one elbow, looks down at Patrick, his eyebrows pulled together the way they do when Pete's really serious about something. "So I'm putting myself on the line, okay, I am fucking in love with you, and if you don't kiss me right now our entire next album will be about how you walked away from me and broke my goddamn heart."

"That'd be a shitty album," Patrick says.

"It'd only sell four copies," Pete says, "and the only reason we'd sell those is 'cause our moms would feel sorry for us."

Patrick knows what to do: he hooks a hand around the back of Pete's neck and tugs him down. Their teeth clack together. Pete huffs quietly and angles his head, and then they're kissing the right way, both of them with their eyes open, staring at each other, and Pete's hand spread out across Patrick's jaw.

***

Outside Salt Lake City, Joe takes a Polaroid of Pete and Patrick sleeping together on the couch, labels it "two fools in love," and tapes it to the bathroom mirror. Patrick blushes every time he sees it, but he doesn't take it down.

**Author's Note:**

> A note about the cow thing: Gertrude Stein referred to orgasms as "cows," and at one point referred to herself as "the best cow-giver in all the land," or something along those lines.


End file.
